distinctly. He was watching the vessel carefully, and the rippling
water from the bends actually did give him the appearance of opening
and closing one eye as the waves of light flashed upon it. He seemed to
be very much absorbed in profound contemplation of the ship. Perhaps
he had not expected to find her so close aboard when he intended
to breach for a breath of air. However, there was plenty of time.
Breathing was something he was not obliged to indulge in more than
once every half-hour or two, and he would not come up until he had put
a little more distance between himself and the vessel. All hands were
peering over the side at him when, suddenly, several blows sounded
close aboard. All about, jets of spray and vapor shot skyward, and
fully a dozen whales breached and then disappeared again. The mate
rushed for the gun and Jackson sprang to the engine signal, while the
second and third officers, “bos’n,” harpooners, and the rest, ran for
their gear. When they looked over the side again the shadow of the
giant had disappeared, and the sea was as quiet as a lake. In a few
minutes a huge form breached about a quarter of a mile ahead--the bull
had breathed, and was quietly going to windward. The animals were not
badly gallied as the word is applied to thoroughly frightened whales.
They had gone along at a steady, but not fast, gait, and had come up
together as if at a signal. The schooner was not troubling them very
much, and the sea was wide. There was room enough for all.
The high, grim cliffs of Staten Land rose higher and higher as the
morning wore on. The _Erin_ was heading inshore, still pointing into
the breeze, and now and then a great spurt of foam and a blow would
show where the whales led the way straight ahead.
“Of all the low-lived critters I ever see, that cowardly bull air the
meanest,” said Jackson, after seven bells had struck; “but I’ll fix
him, if I chase him clear to ’Frisco. I won’t mind burning a few tons
o’ coal fer him. Put an extra charge of powder in behind that iron, and
loose off at him when we come within thirty fathom.”
“Looks like he’ll be a-climbing the mounting ahead thar in a minute,”
said the mate, motioning toward the high and ragged hills which rose
out of the sea.
“We’ll strike ile in half an hour, or I’m a sojer,” said the skipper
decisively. “You tend ter yer own, and don’t give no advice, an’, if
there’s any climbin’ to be done, I’ll do it.”
The animals still held along inshore, and it looked as if they would
soon be in shallow water. The leadline was gotten out when the vessel
came within half a mile of the rocks, and a sounding was taken. No
bottom was found at fifty fathoms, and she was allowed to drift further
in, her engines barely turning fast enough to give her steering way.
The land was very near, and Jackson was nervous. The heavy snore of the
swell upon the ledges sounded plainly over the sunlit sea, and every
now and then a spurt of foam showed that, although the ocean was calm,
there were heavy breakers falling upon the shore, caused by the lift
of the offshore heave. That barren island was not an inviting coast,
and to strike upon a sunken ledge would mean disaster. Jackson stood
upon the poop, with his hand upon the signal, ready to reverse the
engines and swing clear, when there seemed to be a slowing down in the
movements of the game ahead. Then the water whitened about the ship,
and the cause became evident. They were running through a great mass of
whale-food, and the tiny gelatinous bodies were so thick that the color
of the sea was changed by them. Jackson rang off the engine.
“We’ve got ’em now,” he said quietly, and watched the surface of the
ocean.
The big bull whale had run into the mass of food, and had slowed down
a little to allow quantities of it to pour down his gullet. There was
no unseemly haste in getting away from the pursuing stranger. He would
suddenly slew to the southward, when he reached four or five fathoms of
water, and then the pace could be increased until the following craft
would be dropped behind. He was a cool-headed old bull, and there was
no occasion for nervousness--all would have gone well with the whole
herd, if it had not been for a willful young cow.
As the _Erin_ slowed down the whales ahead were swimming upon the
surface, taking in the food in enormous quantities, apparently enjoying
their dinner, and showing no interest in the vessel that held along,
with her sinister purpose, in their wake. She barely rippled the water,
as she went through it, and Mr. Collins, the mate, stood behind the gun
on the forecastle, with the lanyard in his hand, ready to fire at any
back that might break water within thirty fathoms. The rest crowded
about the rail and waited, some standing by the line, ready to snub it
as soon as a stricken animal should become weak enough to allow them.
The young cow that lagged behind the rest was not very large, but she
had a thousand pounds or more of good bone in her mouth, and she had
breached dead in front of the vessel, with her tail toward it. The bull
saw the distance gradually closing between his followers and the ship,
and he gave again that peculiar stroke with his flukes which meant
danger. All save the lagging whale instantly sounded. She was enjoying
the food, and failed to regard the signal, and the _Erin_, going up
astern, quietly approached her.
On account of a whale’s peculiar development, it is difficult for it
to see directly ahead or astern, and an object approaching exactly
in line can do so quite often without being perceived until within
close range. The schooner came drifting slowly down upon the animal,
and was within thirty fathoms, when the big bull suddenly breached a
short distance ahead, the little fellow who had been under his care
being with him. Again he gave the sea a heavy blow with his flukes and
disappeared, and nothing broke the smooth surface.
But the young cow was obstinate. She enjoyed the food, and failed to
note how close the ship had approached. Suddenly the mate straightened
himself and looked along the cannon sights. There was a flash and a
loud report, and the exploding harpoon was launched full at the broad
back that lay drifting almost awash just ahead. The heavy missile went
straight to its mark.
“Stand by to haul line!” came the order, while the mate sprang forward
and slipped another charge into the harpoon gun.
The line whizzed out for a few fathoms before the men could snub it,
but there was no need for a second shot. The missile had done its
work, and the stricken cow began the flurry that ends in death. Round
and round she went in a circle, convulsively throwing herself clear of
the sea and lashing the water into a lather with her flukes. Blood dyed
the foam and her spiracles were crimson. Then she slowed down, and,
with a few shudders of her great frame, lay motionless.
The fluke chain was gotten out, and she was soon fast alongside.
A man was sent aloft to watch, and the operation of removing the
whalebone blades from the mouth began. While this was going on, the
rest of the herd did not run away or get gallied. The big bull was
seen approaching, after a time; and, for an hour, while the work of
cutting in went on, he came up repeatedly at a short distance from the
vessel. The men thought little of this, as the whale-food was thick,
but Jackson pondered at the strangeness of the old fellow’s behavior.
He was an old whaleman, and knew that, at the death of one, the rest
of a school usually get badly gallied, and seldom wait for a second
attack. A sperm whale will stand, but a finback, never; and, as the old
bull rose again and again close aboard, he watched him furtively from
the corner of his eye while superintending the work overside. In spite
of the fact that the cow was fat, the blubber was not stripped. She
was cast adrift early in the afternoon, having yielded a mass of prime
bone, and her carcass floated astern, to be devoured by the countless
sharks and birds that come, apparently by magic, from the void of sea
and sky.
It was late in the afternoon when the _Erin_ started ahead again, and
the mate took his place at the gun. No sooner had the carcass floated a
half-mile distant than the old bull was seen to swim alongside of it.
The schooner was turned slowly around and headed back again.
The old bull had come up to the carcass and examined it. The cow was
quite dead, and the fact that she had been killed by the stranger
gradually became clear to him. Suspicion became conviction on his
part, and he turned toward the rest of his charges and led the way
straight out to sea. Away out toward the Falkland Islands he headed,
and reluctantly the rest followed. The pace was increased to a rapid
gait, and soon the pursuing vessel was under a full head of steam,
plowing through the heavy swell at a great rate, in an effort to keep
the flying herd in sight. The sun sank behind the ragged peaks to the
westward, and the darkness soon put a stop to the chase. Jackson had
secured one of the herd, but the others were gallied and were headed
offshore, where they disappeared in the gathering darkness. Soon the
engine was rung off and the vessel put under easy canvas for the night,
while Jackson walked the poop and gave forcible expression to his
opinion of the old coward who had so ignominiously run away.
[Illustration: THE LINE WAS WHIZZING OUT.]
Away into the vastness of the southern ocean the old fellow led his
charges, always keeping the little whale he had with him close
aboard. He missed the mate who had been slain, but he knew that she
had disregarded his warning. He had done all he could. Now he would
take the rest far away to other feeding grounds, and the ocean would
leave no trail to show the stranger whither he had gone. The young one
near him needed protection, and he would keep him close until he was
large enough to look out for himself. On the edge of Falkland Channel
was plenty of food at that season of the year, and a few hundred miles
would put the stranger safely out of sight. The old brain longed for
rest and quiet. Strife was a useless thing, fit only for the young and
unthinking, or those possessed with the killing spirit.
The morning dawned, and, as the sun rose slanting from the southern
ocean, the old bull took a look around. Nothing broke the even line
of the horizon, and then, the feeling that the stranger had been left
behind coming upon him, he slowed the tremendous pace. One hundred
miles of trackless sea had been placed between him and the rocks of
Staten Land.
For many weeks the herd cruised to the northward of the Falkland
Islands, the old bull still keeping the young whale under his
protecting care. Finally there was born a pretty little baby whale with
rounded lines, weighing, perhaps, a little more than half a ton. A pair
of the fierce “killer” sharks soon scented the tender little fellow,
and made a concerted rush, one day, to seize him before the older
whales could prevent; but the bull smote one a blow with his flukes
that crushed him as flat as if a house had fallen upon him, and the
other took flight. He was a watchful old fellow, and had to keep on the
lookout night and day, for the mother whale was weak, and would recover
slowly.
As the days passed the weather began to change. The zone of the
“variables,” or that of the “roaring forties,” is not to be depended
upon long for sunshine and pleasant breezes. One day it started in for
a gale from the eastward, and the sea was white with rolling combers.
The whale-food was driven south, and the animals were forced to follow.
The sun shone only for a short time each day, being but a few degrees
above the sea line, and the high-rolling sea made life upon the surface
uncomfortable. The bull headed for the South Orkney Islands, and for
days the little band of giants went along below the surface, only
coming up every now and then to breathe.
As they made their way southward, the wind grew less violent. The high
black cliffs of the islands offered no shelter to vessels, but to the
whales the lee of the land was comfortable, and the sea was swarming
with food. There they would rest a while and take life easy, beyond the
reach of the hurricanes from Cape Horn.
The old bull guided the band among the sunken peaks, and for weeks they
fattened under his care, when one bleak morning he came to the surface
of the sea and noticed a black shape approaching. There was something
strangely familiar in the outlines, and, after watching it for some
minutes, he remembered the schooner _Erin_.
She was heading straight toward the whales, and was going slowly, as if
in no particular hurry, and upon her forecastle was the same murderous
gun which had slain the cow near Le Maire Strait.
The young whale, who was in company, breached playfully into full view
and sounded. The vessel did not change her course, but headed straight
for the cow with the newborn calf, who was feeding a mile distant to
the southward.
The old bull instantly struck the water with his flukes and headed for
her. The rest of the herd took notice of the warning, and sank from
view; but, whether the cow failed to notice it, or her young one was
disobedient, it was too late to find out. The schooner made a sudden
spurt of speed, and, coming close to the mother, fired the harpoon into
her before she fairly realized what was taking place.
The dull boom of the shot told the old whale what had happened, before
he came up to look. When he arrived within a hundred fathoms, the
mother was in her last agony, and her little baby was being towed along
with her, being unable to realize its mother’s death, and still holding
to her with all the tenderness of a child.
The old bull lay watching events, and once tried to make the little
fellow let go by giving the sea some tremendous slaps with his flukes;
but he was too young to understand, and, while the bull watched, a boat
was lowered and the sailors began their work of destruction. They rowed
slowly toward the infant, and suddenly one rose in the bow and hurled a
harpoon into his soft baby side. The little fellow gave a spring upward
in his agony. A man quickly pulled him alongside the boat and another
drove a lance through him.
Jackson was standing upon the poop, looking on, and the mate was on
the forecastle, loading the gun for another shot when an opportunity
should offer. The men in the waist were overhauling the fluke chain
to make fast to the dead mother, while the man at the wheel held the
spokes idly. The skipper turned toward him.
“Seems to me that that’s the old cowardly bull we fell in with to th’
no’th’ard; aint it?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; it looks like him fer sure,” answered the man; “jest see
him, sir.”
As they looked, the great whale lay watching the men in the boat.
His old oily brain was working, and the rapid events of the last
few minutes were gradually making an impression on his mind. He was
wondering at the slaughter, and could hardly understand how it was done
so quickly. The mother had been a favorite for many years, yet there
she lay, suddenly dead before him. Would the strange craft follow him
over the seas, and kill off the herd one by one, until all were gone?
The boat approaching the young whale stirred his attention. He smote
the sea savagely with his flukes to warn him of the danger. Then the
iron went home, and the little fellow was dead beside his mother.
Something flashed suddenly through the old brain. The pent-up reserve
of years seemed to give way within him, all thought of safety fell
away, and the old feeling of the conqueror rose within his heart.
“Good Lord, what’s a-comin’?” gasped Jackson.
His remark was not addressed to anyone in particular, but was caused by
a terrific commotion in the sea which caused the men to drop their gear
and look out over the side to see what was taking place.
The coward, the giant bull who had fled so often from them, was heading
straight for the small boat and was tearing the southern ocean into
foam with his flukes. Straight as a harpoon from the gun forward, he
shot with tremendous speed, hurling his hundred tons of bone and sinew
like a living avalanche upon the doomed craft.
“Starn all,” was the hoarse yell from the third officer, who stood upon
the stern-sheets and swung madly upon the steering oar. Men strained
their necks forward over the schooner’s rail to see. The unfortunate
men at the oars of the whaleboat struggled wildly. An oar snapped.
There was a wild cry, and some sprang up to dive over the side into the
sea. At that instant the whale leaped high in the air, clearing the
water fully two fathoms. Then he crashed down upon the boat, wiping all
out in a tremendous smother of spray. He was close to the _Erin_, and
the mate stood waiting. There was a loud report as Collins fired the
exploding harpoon into him, taking him almost “on the fly,” as it were,
and then as he disappeared beneath the surface there was a heavy jar
that shook the _Erin_ from stem to stern. She had been rammed.
For an instant not a man aboard moved. Then Jackson, with a face as
white as chalk, came forward and called below to the engineer.
The line was whizzing out upon the forecastle head, showing that
Collins had made the shot of his life. He had struck the whale, but
just where he had no idea. He stood watching the line as it flaked away
with the rapidity of lightning, but said no word to the men to have it
snubbed. He had felt the heavy jar beneath the schooner’s keel, and
knew what it meant as plainly as if he had seen the stroke.
Two,--three,--four,--five hundred fathoms went whirling over the side,
and silence still reigned aboard. The sea had smoothed again where the
whaleboat had been a few moments before, but the only signs of her were
a few floating splinters. Not a man ever appeared again.
Suddenly the strain was broken.
“Water comin’ in fast below, sir,” was the word passed on deck.
Jackson walked aft as if in a dream. The mate left the gun, and the
last fathom of the line flaked overboard unheeded. It brought up
suddenly, taut as a bowstring, then snapped. The mate paid not the
least attention to it, but went slowly aft.
“Shall we provision the boats, sir?” he asked, as he approached the
captain.
Jackson stared at him. “D’ye know what it means?” asked the old
whaleman huskily.
The mate nodded. Half an hour later, four boats full of men were
heading northward for the Falkland Islands, and the only thing that
remained upon the spot where the _Erin_ had floated a short time before
was the carcass of a mother whale with her baby alongside, while above
them the birds hovered and screamed as if to mark the grave of the lost
ship.
The next year a Scottish whaleman from the Falklands fell in with an
old bull whale whose starboard side bore a tremendous wound, partly
healed. He was so wary, however, that he was soon lost sight of, and
the school that followed him gave no chance for a catch.
[Illustration: IN THE WAKE OF THE WEATHER-CLOTH]
We had raised the great tower of the Hatteras lighthouse in the dim
gray of the early morning. The huge spark flashed and faded as the lens
swung slowly about its axis some fifteen miles to the south’ard of us.
Objects now began to be more distinct, and our masthead could be made
out against the leaden background above. Up there the fierce song of
the gale roared dismally as the little vessel rose upon the giant Gulf
sea, and swung her straining fabric to windward. Then, quartering the
heave of the foam-crested hill, she would drop slowly down that dread
incline and roll desperately to leeward as she started to meet the
rushing hill to windward and above her.
With a bit of the gaff hoisted, and leach and luff lashed fast down,
we were trying to forereach to the eastward and clear the death-trap
under our lee--the fatal diamond of the Hatteras Shoals. Buck and I had
been on deck all the day before, and all night, and we welcomed the
growing light as only hard-pressed men at sea can welcome it. It meant
a respite from the black hell about us, and the heavy snore of some
giant comber would no longer make us catch our breath in the dread it
might be the beginning of that white reach where no vessel that enters
comes forth again.
We could see we had many miles between us and the end--miles that
meant many minutes which might be utilized in the fight for life. We
were heading nearly east now, and the stanch little craft was making
better than south, while the gale had swung up to nor’-nor’east. She
was forereaching ahead, though going fast to leeward, and it looked as
if we might claw off into the wild Gulf Stream, where in spite of the
sea lay safety. To leeward lay certain death, the wild death of a lost
ship in the white smother that rolled with the chaotic thunder of riven
hills of water.
Buck’s face was calm and white in the morning light, and his oilskins
hung about him in dismal folds. White streaks of salt showed under
his eyes, which were partly sheltered by his sou’wester, and the deep
lines in his wet cheeks gave him a worn-out look. He must have been
very tired, for as I came from behind the piece of canvas lashed on
the weather quarter to serve as a weather-cloth, he left the wheel and
dropped down behind the bulwarks.
“Begins to look better,” I bawled, taking off the becket from the wheel
spokes, which had been hove hard down all night. “She needs a bit of
nursing,” and Buck nodded and grinned as he ducked from the flying
drift.
She was doing well now, and after trying to ease her a while I put the
wheel back in the becket and bawled down the scuttle to our little
black boy to get us some junk and ship’s bread.
Our other man, John, a Swede, had turned in dead beat out an hour
before, and as we four were all hands, I thought it just as well to let
him sleep as long as he could. As master, I would have to stay on deck
anyway.
Buck and I crouched in the lee of the bulwarks and tarpaulin, munching
the junk and watching the little ship ride the sea. We could do nothing
except let her head as close as we dared to the gale.
As long as the canvas held all would be well. The close-reefed mainsail
would have been blown away in the rush of that fierce blast, and it
would have been folly to try to drive her into that appalling sea. If
anything started we were lost men. She was only a twenty-ton vessel,
but she had a good nine feet of keel under her, and could hold on
grimly. We had used a sea anchor for twenty-four hours, but while it
held her head to the sea it caused her to drift dead to leeward, so we
had at last cut it adrift and put a bit of storm staysail on her to
work ahead.
“I’m glad we didn’t run durin’ the night,” said Buck, “she wouldn’t ’a’
done it an’ gone clear--just look at that fellow!”
As he spoke a giant sea rose on the weather beam, a great mass of blue
water capped with a white comber. The little vessel’s head dropped down
the foam-streaked hollow until we were almost becalmed under the sea
that followed. A dirty, dangerous sea to run in.
“I thought you might have run when we saw how bad it was--an’ trust
to luck to go clear. But fight on, says I, even when you know you’re
losing. If you’d started to run you’d never been able to swing her up
again if we’d had to--an’ now we’ll go clear. She’ll stand it.”
Buck was an American and John a Swede. The latter had hinted at running
off before the storm when we found ourselves close in. Buck cursed him
in my presence in true American fashion.
“Never give up a fight because you’re beat at the start,” says I.
“It’s them that fights when they have to, an’ because it’s right,
that always win. We did seem dead beat last night, an’ when that light
flashed out bright I was almost willing to say Amen. But I knew it ware
wrong, an’ we must fight it out. A man that fights to win is no sailor.
It’s him that fights when he _knows_ he will lose--an’ then maybe he
won’t lose after all.”
The sun showed a little through a break in the flying scud, and the
water looked a beautiful blue, streaked with great patches of white.
Buck was gazing hard to the southward and could make nothing out except
the Hatteras Light. He was tired, and refused to move from a wash of
foam along the deck where he sat.
“You see,” he said, wiping the spray from his face, “a man can’t tell
nothin’ in this world. There’s no use tryin’ to at sea--an’ the more
you risk sometimes the more you win. It isn’t always judgment. There
ware old man Richards. He knew the coast, but he trusted his judgment
too much--an’ I’m the bum ye see now. I don’t mean nothin’ agin your
boat, Cap’n.
“You remember Richards? Had the ole _Pocosin_. Used to run her from
Nassau to Hunter’s P’int. ’Taint much of a run, even for that kind o’
hooker, but in the winter this Cape is hell, an’ that’s a fact. You kin
almost jump from wrack to wrack from the Core Bank to Bodie’s Island.
I’ve seen forty vessels, big an’ small, on the beach here in one
season--an’ we aint out o’ the business yet, either.”